


Stray Cat Shuffle

by afriendtosell



Category: Marvel (Comics), Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-11-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 16:45:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5012224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afriendtosell/pseuds/afriendtosell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say bad luck comes in threes. For Peter Parker, she comes dressed in tight black leather and swearing a vow to put Spider-Man six-feet-under for ruining her life. Complicated doesn't even begin to describe Felicia Hardy. (Or their relationship.)</p><p>But, just how far will the Black Cat go to punish Peter for a crime he didn't commit?</p><p>xxx</p><p>[Ignores everything after ASM 20.1 and the Spiral storyline. See Notes for Continuity Information. 4/19/16: Updates on hold due to finishing grad school]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Them's the Breaks

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Continuity keeps with Amazing Spider-Man up to end of the Spiral storyline (ASM 20.1, 2015). I ignore everything about “The Secret War,” and any other associated multiverse-changing events thereafter. Basically: Felicia thinks Peter is responsible for beating her and putting her in jail when it was actually Doctor Octopus possessing Peter's body. Now, she wants revenge and is willing to create an entire criminal empire to achieve her goal.
> 
> If you don't understand a specific comic reference, hover over it for an editor's note either pointing toward the storyline or specific issue in question. (If people think this is too unwieldy, I am more than happy to do numeric author's notes at the end of each chapter.)

xxx

 _I do my best, but I’m made of mistakes._ __  
_Yes, there are still things I’m still quite sure of;_  
_I love you this hour, this hour today,_  
_and heaven will smell like the airport,_  
_but I may never get there to prove it._  
_So let’s not waste our time thinking how that ain’t fair;_  
_I’m an animal, you’re an animal, too._  
_You’re an animal too._

\- Neko Case, “I'm An Animal”

xxx

 

Upside-down and immobile are never the greatest look for Spider-man.

He knows this not because of his dozen wounds, the blood pooling beneath him, nor the rapidly dwindling amount of oxygen in his lungs. If he has to be honest—and he usually is, time and circumstance permitting—he doesn’t even know because of experience. Fifteen years behind a camera lens would teach anyone the merits of staying a moving target.

Most days, Peter Parker gets by same as everyone else.

( _By thread alone_ , one of Kaine’s favorite jokes goes. _That’s how Spiders make it_.)

And it isn’t that he hasn’t had worse.

Over the long course of his Friendly Neighborhood career, he’s been: clobbered, shot at, _shot through_ , irradiated, thrown crashing through walls, buildings, across state lines, been impaled, burned, flash-frozen, strangled, buried alive, died—twice!—and come back, good as new and raring to not ever give up the good fight.

Most of that in the last year and a half, actually.

Somehow, he manages to pull through when it counts. Falters here and there sometimes, sure; age thirty and still wondering if he’ll ever get in his life in order, now the

Two months back, Peter’s leading a ragtag bunch of misfits through time and space. Their mission? Look self-proclaimed gods right in the eye and make the monsters _blink_. A month prior, he’s little more than scraps of memory, a nagging voice locked away in the pitch-black sea that Otto Octavius’ mind. Further than that, he’s living in a world where all of Brooklyn shares his curse. He’s watching the last surviving copy of his DNA become a hero. He’s running from a woman possessed by revenge, her only goal his utter destruction, and _then_ —

Before, before, before.

Felicia and Peter had a “before” once.

However, like most things dealt with after the fact: Otto proved himself “Superior” only at sabotaging Peter Parker’s life.

He hasn’t exactly been falling _up_ since then.

(Not that Peter isn’t grateful—hard to spit on the grave of a man that earned you a Doctorate and made you CEO of a company—but screwing up isn’t exactly new to him.)

So, now he thinks of here and after.

Here, Felicia is stroking his cheek while Peter hangs from the ceiling by his wrists. A thick cord of some gunmetal black alloy he’s never seen before tethers him in place, holding fast and constricting tighter by the minute. He can barely breathe. Move. The snare corkscrews his body from neck to ankle, threading him haphazard but _thorough_. Any abrupt shift of his body threatens to crush his trachea wholesale; the more he pushes, the harder it pulls back.

Someone did their homework.

“You can thank our mutual acquaintance Ringer for this one. Or at least whoever’s wearing the suit nowadays. They were just _dying_ to get back in my good graces,” Felicia explains, leaning close, the scent of vanilla and lavender her only reprieve. “And after your little protégé put them through their namesake, who I am to refuse anyone a shot at redemption?”

The pad of her thumb, latex-smooth beneath her costume, ghosts the side of Peter’s jawline. It hooks the seal of his mask and the neck of his shirt, tugs down slow and certain.

His first thought is that this is par the course for the day he’s having. With more and more gangs coming out of the woodwork in the absence of the Kingpin, not to mention Parker industries needing to be rebuilt from the ground up, it was only a matter of time for something else to go wrong. The rules of threes applied to comedy just as much as its opposite face.

His second thought—courtesy of a sharp flare of Spidey-sense—is to brace for her right hook.

(Little good it does.)

The blow catches him beneath the eye, a sharp _crack_ of knuckles to bone that echoes through the empty apartment. He swings like part of an over-sized Newton’s cradle; Felicia may not go round for round with other heavy-hitters, but by no means is she weak. He’ll bruise in the morning, maybe even black out if this was the first of many more to come. It probably is.

She shakes out her wrist. “…Probably hurt me more than I did you,” a short laugh, and then: “But that’s always been the case, hasn’t it? You and me—it’s like herding cats…Insane.”

Peter keeps quiet. For what it’s worth, he stills loves Felicia. Always has. She’s seen him at his worst, helped him through black times even Mary Jane and Logan couldn’t understand. That was her talent before all others; Felicia could see to the heart of people and bring out their best.

But to her, here and now, Peter Parker is just another shitty ex-boyfriend guilty of beating an old flame.

(So hard it knocked out a tooth, he tries not to think.)

She hits him again, a jab to the solar plexus that drives the air from his lungs. He tastes metal and bile, blinks away the spots that try to crowd his vision. This swinging does him no favors.

“Know what I hate about this most, Spider?” Felicia pulls the length of alloy connecting him to the roof until Peter comes to a complete stop. “It isn’t the Doc Ock bits. Idiotic as they sound—and, believe me, no one realizing that creep was in your body ranks up there—it’s all par the course. These past few years, it’s almost been like anyone who so much as sneezes in New York gets dragged into your fucking soap opera of a life.”

Anger threads the tone of her voice; their every conversation has been a maelstrom lately, violence an undercurrent of every word, every glance and touch. She isn’t one prone to random fits of temper, or wasn’t someone like that; but now the rules have changed. She’s changed.

 _That Felicia’s gone_ , her voice rings in the back of his mind. _I’m done being what other people want_.

She grabs the back of his head, holds him at eye level. “I’m through with stressing over what I can’t control. It isn’t worth the hassle,” clawed fingers dig into his scalp through his mask. “You aren’t worth the hassle, Spider. I see that now. What’s bothered me all these months is that I’ve been living someone else’s life. I’m not the protagonist of my own story.”

“I’ve become so wrapped up, so attuned to this superhero cat-and-mouse that I let it color who I am. Playing the hero or pretending the villain: it’s all the same mask.” She tucks pale strands of white behind an ear, regarding him close, head tilted just so. “And I’m done with it. I’m worth more than just playing a bit part in someone else’s life.”

He can’t stay quiet after that. His conscience won’t let him. “Felicia, that isn’t—”

A backhand to the face. She draws blood and sends his world spinning round and round. “You stole that name from me, Spider. I’m taking it back,” she steps away from him then, reaches up to tap the part of her mask closet to her ear. Goes quiet for a moment.

Peter’s learned to expect the worst from silence. Using every ounce of his strength, he tries to slip a wrist free of its confines, just one wrist is all he needs, rotating it this way and that, pulling and pushing against the metal wrapped around it to see if it’ll give.

It doesn’t, but his struggle keeps Felicia’s gaze in one place. Good.

“—Yeah, I’ve got the package,” she explains to the air, “I need a pick-up in five—bring a crew that knows how to deal with Spider-man, no less than ten. _Experienced_ , got that?”

“Really Cat, that many guys for little ol’ me?” he lays it on thick, voice pitching higher, eyes of his mask forced wide. “Either they’re running a special at Goons R’ Us, or this the start of a reaaaaaal bad scene from Pulp Fiction.”

Her eyes narrow to slits, “Make the following absolutely clear: if the Spider gets away, it’s on everyone’s head." there's a beat, as if she's considering saying more. But then: " _No_ mistakes, do you hear me?”

For once, Peter finds himself glad Felicia is so determined to kill him.

It keeps her attention in all the wrong places.

“—Then I guess some _heads are gonna roll_ tonight, you Kingpin wannabe!”

Cindy Moon is the fastest Spider Peter has ever seen. In the chaos that follows, she moves as a Peregrine on the wind, nimble and resolute. Supremely confident, she takes Cat on even footing, trading her blow-for-blow, never still for more than the blink of an eye. And though Felicia has years more experience, Cindy is raw talent galvanized by the unremitting need to improve; she is reckless and therefore unpredictable, a moving puzzle-box whose answer remains in constant flux.

Of course Felicia retreats.

“This isn’t over, Spider!” she calls back over her shoulder, and Peter honestly expects another threat, a hasty promise of continued violence; but Felicia wastes nothing else.

(He can’t decide which is worse.)

“Heck of an ex-girlfriend you got there, Pete.” Cindy stretches on approach, one arm reaching to the ceiling as the other pulled it by the shoulder. “Reeeeeeal sweet catch—she coming to the next Fourth of July bash at Avenger’s HQ?”

“Sure, sure. Make jokes while I’m…” his vision blurs, head sagging for a moment until he snaps back out of it. “—alright, that sucked wind. Liiiittle help here, please and thanks?”

She rolls her eyes, arms crossed at her chest. “Everyone’s a critic, sheesh. Have you figured a way out yet, or...?”

The snare takes after Felicia’s whip in make and purpose, its length comprised of hundreds of interlocking metal chevrons. When Peter moves, the thing tightens. When Felicia moved him, it stayed taut. “Well, about that—” he hedges. “I’ve…maybe got an idea?”

Unimpressed, thy name is Cindy Moon.

“How you managed to survive this long, the world may never know. Well, I mean— _I_ know because Ezekiel was a freak, but.” she sighs, looks him up and down before taking a step back. “Never this freaky.”

“Stop that train of thought _right_ at the station, Cin.”

She uses her hands to pantomime holding a camera to her face. “Juuuuust saying, Webhead. There are plenty of eight-hundred numbers for this kind of stuff.”

“Less quippy, more savey.”

“What’s the rush?” she prods his side, watches him sway. “Got another hot date with a girl rocking a leather suit?”

“A guy, actually.” he shoots back, “Several.”

“—Oh.” She hesitates. Shrugs one shoulder. “Never thought you’d be _that_ kinda swinger. I’m a little impressed.”

“Cat sent for a goon squad right before you showed up, Cin.”

She nods, gives him another shove. “That’s better. Way less A-plus gossip-material, but better.” A beat of quiet, “Alright, gimme a sec. I think I got this.”

Of the little he knows about Cindy, one thing proved clear time and again: she was resourceful. He feels one of her boots press into the small of his back, almost questions it until the whole of him bobs to the floor then up again. Though Peter can’t see her, the way everything begins to rattle and sway is enough; she’s scaling the cord tethering him to the ceiling—but why?

“Okay Pete, I’m ready!” she calls out once the world goes back to being still. “This, well...alright, honestly? This might hurt a little.” he cranes his neck to find her crouched on the roof perpendicular to him. “But only a little, I promise! Brace yourself!”

Oh, that was her plan. Fonz it.

Great—the ceiling goes in an outburst of dust, violence, and concrete, Peter wrenched in place one moment, every muscle screaming for release until suddenly they’re not, he’s not, and the ground is very much in a hurry to rekindle the intimate relationship it had with his face. Ow.

“Ow,” he repeats out loud after coming to a stop, “Cin, that—okay, yeah. Surprisingly did not involve being crushed by a ton of falling psycho-metal. What gives?”

Cindy whistles. Pushing himself to a seat, Peter looks to the ceiling to find her holding what Black Cat used to ambush him by its “tail”. The entire thing looked a near-exact replica of her new whip, spear-tipped end and all. (That it goes inert after losing contact with something, he files away for later.)

“No thanks necessary, Chief.” Cindy tosses the thing before dropping to the floor. “All in a day’s work for the Smashing Silk Super-girl.”

He pops an eyebrow, too tired to stand.

“What?” she crosses her arms, leaning back on the heel of one foot. “Don’t gimme that look, it’s catchy.”

“Catchy in what bizarro universe?”

“Don’t push it, man. I could’ve _literally_ left you hanging there.” She takes the hand Peter extends and helps him to his feet. “What’s your beef with tall, lithe, and gorgeous anyway? If I hadn’t come around, you would’ve been Meowmix.”

He dusts himself off, feels ten different kinds of worse at having to move. “One: no one says “beef” anymore. Even I’m hip enough to know that. And for two, well. She— _it’s_ complicated. Doc Ock did a number on Cat when I was, ah…indisposed, and now she hates my guts. Half the crud I’ve had to put up with this last month ties right back to her somehow.”

“Sounds nasty.” Understatement of the year, but Peter lets it go. “You tell her it wasn’t you?”

“Yeah, of course.” he starts for a window, Cindy falling into step beside. “She was there for Venom and the, uh—Flash likes to call it the _Clone Wars_? She was there for that and the Skrull invasion, too. I thought she’d just give me the cold shoulder for a few months and then we’d have a big dumb laugh about it.”

Ha. If only.

Cindy leans against the window frame. “But...She didn’t, and now you’re being stalked by the literal Ghost of Girlfriends Past.” She shakes her head. “What is even your life, dude.”

"Basically," he admits. Even to his own ears, he sounds tired.

In fifteen years of donning the mask, Peter’s found that the line demarcating “Good” and “Evil” generally isn’t worth much. Sure, psychopaths like Norman Osborn made it loud and clear they were out to rule the world, that nothing and no one could dissuade them from it; but they were outliers. The proverbial “Sith” in the constant battle between the Light and Dark. And it’s easy to condemn them, easy to make them out to be monsters, just forget that even so-called Heroes can take lives and spread just as much misery and pain if left unaccountable.

With Great Power…always came the decision of how to use it. For good, or ill.

(A lesson he would never forget.)

Black Cat is just another victim as far as Peter’s concerned.

Cindy waves a hand in front of his face, gives him a slight look of concern Peter tries to dissuade with a shake of his head. “So…what’s your next move?” she asks.

Peter looks out over the city. It’s been three months since Felicia set up shop, a little less than one since the Big Apple apparently turned into a statewide rehearsal for _Gangs of New York_. With Tombstone and Hammerhead still behind bars, their territories remain prime real estate for any two-bit crook wanting to start making a name for themselves. Felicia was obviously making her own plays, recruiting more and worse down-and-out ex-cons and villains as time went on; but she was a symptom, not the cause.

He considers his options.

“I can’t force her to let it go. Whatever she thinks Doc— _I_ did to her, it runs deep. I’m not a huge fan of the idea, but if she keeps coming at me like _this_ ,” he jerks a thumb at the room behind them both. “I’ll have to fight back. She’ll probably kill me, otherwise.”

“Or worse,” Cindy offers, and though it’s a joke, Peter still has to fight the twist in his gut. He’s been at _or worse_ before. “Reaction isn’t exactly a plan, though. Great for Buddhists, but kind of asking for trouble in our line of work.”

He cants his head. “You have a suggestion then, I take it?”

“Bring the fight to her, I guess?” she shrugs. “Not the best thing, I’ll admit. But I’ve always been a fan of your team-ups with Wolverine—with him, you just know an episode of Spidey and his Amazing Friends will wrap up in a neat bow of hyper-violence."

“Cindy, when did you even—”

She holds up a hand. “Fifteen years in a bunker, dude. A girl had needs.”

“I’m not even going to begin explaining how messed up that is.” Peter fires a web-line to the nearest building. “Seriously, Ezekiel was the friggin’ worst.”

“My point still stands, Sir Oh Holier Than Thou.” she grabs his web-line, tugging it to the side. “You need a play better than just waiting around for this to bite you on the ass.”

“But that’s, like, my _modus operandi_. You’re asking me to go against fifteen-year-old internal programming.”

Aunt May would be proud of Cindy's glare. “Peter.”

He heaves a sigh. “Fine, fine. You win—I’ll go home and start thinking of a plan, happy?”

“Iiiiimmeasurably,” the kiss she gives his cheek is an electric roller coaster down the length of his spine. Even through the fabric. “—Swing you to your place?”

“Do I look that bad?”

She makes a face. “Let’s just say Jackson Pollock would try to hang you in an art gallery.”

“Ouch, alright then. Think I might—” the sound of an explosion in the distance preempts whatever else might come out. Cindy is already moving, leaps from the window and halfway down the street by the time Peter fires a web-line and chases after.

The world didn’t stop just for Peter Parker’s issues. Wouldn’t ever, it seemed. But Peter could do his best to keep ahead of every left hook it threw his way.

Had to, he realized.

Spider-sense could never predict _people_.


	2. Blindslyde(d)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I'm moving away from using hover-text to do the Editor's Notes, as they're a little time consuming and people may miss them by accident. Instead, all specific comic references will now be denoted by footnotes.

Turn any street in New York City and you’re bound to find a super-villain.

A lot of them, you’d never know by looking. They blend right in with the crowd—your perpetual ex-cons and gangsters, career criminals like the Shocker or Boomerang with more street than smart between their ears. Others fall into crime, poured out from broken homes and circumstance into the waiting arms of madmen; those like Sandman and the Vulture, Mobius and Electro, each bestowed great power without understanding what such a thing could take.

(He thinks of Aleksei. Connors. Puts their names from his mind and keeps swinging.)

Few Capes ever found it impossible to sympathize with their Rogues. Men like the Punisher or Ghost Rider were outliers; they took life easy, justified it using metrics devoid any shade of gray. To them, rehabilitation and criminals were an oxymoron. An impossibility. And others like Spider-Man were worse villains yet for allowing evil to run free.

Sometimes, the monsters proved them right.

Bank robberies aren't a rare occurrence in New York. Even less in recent months—in the absence of a true Kingpin of Crime1, the criminals of New York had declared open season. The city was a warzone; there weren’t enough cops to keep up, and half the Avengers were either off in space or God only knew where else. The sheer number of crimes—thirty break-ins this week alone—had even Friendly Neighborhood Spiders admitting they couldn’t be everywhere at once.

The police haven’t arrived by the time he and Silk do. Sirens wail in the distance and from within the bank itself, its front doors blown clean off their hinges. Beyond them, Peter barely makes out a pair of black-clad shapes moving in the dim.

“We take ‘em both in one shot,” he whispers, holding up two fingers Cindy’s way before pointing to the bank. “In, webbed, and then look for accomplices.”

“Look at you being all professional,” the corner of her mask quirks up in a smile. “All the blood to the head must’ve paid off.”

They move in silence, twin multitonal blurs in the dark. When Peter hits the ceiling inside, he expects to see Boomerang and his new Sinister Six, Vulture and his ever-growing trope of wayward children—second on his list to deal with after Black Cat—even Marko or Hydro-man for old time’s sake. With the night he’s having, it wouldn’t be a huge stretch.

Instead, he gets Slyde and Blindside.

(Of course.)

The new order of things saw all kinds ooze from the woodwork. In the lack of a coherent power structure, those without a reputation fell through the cracks and thrived. Little fish, the ones like Stilt-Man or Trapster, owed no allegiance to anyone but themselves. In the grand scheme of things, they weren’t important enough to warrant attention, and that made them invisible.

Scavengers during wartime.

Slyde was a regular nobody of nobodies, a holdover from a time when empowered criminals only ever needed a gimmick and a plan. Ten years ago, he’d been on the same level as Shocker or the Beetle—a nuisance, though one liable to get the drop on Peter if he wasn’t careful. Now, he and his suit are little more than an annoyance; too many other criminals had stepped up their game since, had become more than just an assortment of tricks or gadgets.

Blindside, he knows, is the more dangerous element. Unlike Slyde, he’s a relatively new player to the game. Any confrontation between them still held an air of uncertainty. Rogues could grow and evolve over time, same as anyone else. Sometimes, they followed the same rules as Capes. They worked with codes of conduct, tried to do crime “straight”. Methodical—get in and get out, hurt if you gotta, but don’t take a life. Sometimes, that commitment held for years.

(Sometimes, they became _Carnage_.)

Usually, what guys like Blindside and Slyde do is just try to survive—take what they can, when they can, and hope one of New York’s second-finest don’t get in the way. It was illegal, but staying small has its benefits. In the present chaos, free agents probably had the best shot at making it out relatively unscathed.

“Oh, guys. Guys, guys, guys, guys, _guys_ —” _relatively_ unscathed; the cash register Slyde drops on his foot has got to sting something fierce. “You really picked the wrong night to be doing this, sheesh. Haven’t you heard there’s two of me now?”

Cindy shakes a fist in his direction. “Not a clone, dude! Quit telling people I’m a clone.”

“Hear that?” he jerks a thumb her way, fires a web with his opposite hand to stop Blindside making for an emergency exit. “Two exact copies of Spider-Man. She may be prettier, but you’re still boned. Double-boned, even.”

Cindy groans. “Dude. Phrasing, much?”

“Head outta the gutter, Silk.” he does wince in retrospect, though. “Now, back to you two. What’re a pair of upstanding mooks like yourselves doing out tonight?”

Part of him is glad it’s these two knuckleheads, tonight. Slyde and Blindside (try saying it five times fast) have never been what Peter would call difficult crooks. They both have power-sets verging on headache inducing; but at the end of the day, their gimmicks only went so far.

“Oh, hey Spider-Man!” Slyde waves, strangely cheerful. “We were just, ah— _sliding on by_!”

The problem, Peter thinks, is that too many crooks focus on presentation. They’re all bark; Slyde’s suit hasn’t been a problem since he figured out what made it tick, a quick change of web-fluid all it takes to render him immobile. The web-line he fires takes the man at the ankle, a swift yank back sending him crashing to the floor.

“So…you were saying?” he asks.

Slyde holds his hands up. “We ain’t here to cause no trouble, Spider.”

“Doubt that.” Cindy’s Spider-sense kicks in first; a web-line cocoons Slyde’s hands together above his head. “I mean, like the double-negative didn’t give it away. Creep.”

“Honest, we was—we’re bein’ coerced! Yeah, that’s it! Coerced!” Slyde almost sounds it, but this new guy has months of practice. “Ain’t that right Blind? We’re just patsies caught up in forces outta our control and whatnot. Honest!”

The man in question has been inching toward a window for the better part of a minute. Peter stops him in his tracks by firing a web large enough to bar his escape route. “Got a date or something, Blindside?”

He cringes, opens his mouth and—

“Foul on Spider-Man!” Cindy interrupts, her arms crossing in the shape of an X. “I’m calling foul on the play! Usage of a teammate’s quip is a two-coffee penalty after patrol!”

Peter puts a hand to his chest, faux-affronted. “Are you saying I stole a bit?”

“With as much finesse as these two goobers, yeah.” she answers. “Really expected better from you, Spidey.”

“I can’t believe what I’m hearing. This is character assassination.” Peter shoots back, webbing Blindside to the floor as well. “The defense sees Ms. Silk’s accusation as, hold on—” more webs catch Blindside at both hands, anchoring them to a nearby wall. “Forgot his suit does that thing I hate. Anyway, this attack on our honorable Friendly Neighborhood Spider will not stand, Ms. Silk! These baseless accusations are an obvious grab for attention!”

She sticks out her tongue. “Nu-uh.”

“Yes-huh. And worse yet—” he lets himself fall to the ground, turning to land on his feet. “This very serious claim is _obviously_ rooted in the fact neither of us has had dinner yet.”

“Ha! Yeah, no; F-minus on that one, Web-head.” Her answer is a thumb pointed at the ground while she imitated the sound of a buzzer. “I’ve seen high-schoolers with better game.”

“Wait, that was for real, Spider-Man?” Despite the mask, Slyde can manage an incredulous look rather well. “Man, that was just… _ouch_ , man. What were you even thinkin’?”

Slyde’s face comes down with a sudden and terminal case of web-to-the-mouth. “One, not what I meant,” Peter answers. “And for two: you’d be knocked off your feet if I ever…um. Huh. That’s actually pretty smart. Go Blindside.”

“What’re you—” Cindy follows his gaze. Blindside had apparently taken off his gloves and boots to escape being webbed to the floor. Wow. When Cindy looks back at him, Peter points to the other emergency door and mouths _thattaway_.

( _Solifugae_ are the fastest spiders in the world. Their largest specimens grow to be anywhere between five and six inches, and average ten miles per hour at their fastest recorded speed.

Extrapolate that by five feet and a hundred-odd pounds. (Give or take)

Cindy hits the floor, the ceiling, a table, and then lands on the space right next to the emergency door, left side bathed in neon red. Webs take Blindside at the knees, coiling tight enough to send him sprawling across the floor. Peter whistles when he comes to a stop, impressed. A month ago, it would’ve taken Cindy five stops and twice as much web.

“—You planned that, didn’t you?” Cindy shoots Peter a none-to-pleased look while Blindside tries to crawl away. “Tried to Mr. Miyagi me or something.”

“Well…” Peter hedges, shrugging.

"Tell me to wax the spider-mobile and I’ma wreck it,” she ropes Blindside by the ankles, pulling him back. “Like, without even hesitating. Just run it off the Empire State and into the Hudsoh _waitaminute_.”

—Funny thing about Spider-sense?

It kicks without specifics, always a pulse in the back of the head screaming danger, danger Wil Robinson. Silk reacts first, leaping back as a pitch black haze erupts from every inch of Blindside’s suit, her somersault taking her to the ceiling. Peter isn’t so lucky; he manages to cover his mouth with web, but he’s nowhere near as fast or forewarned. One moment, he’s watching Blindside become the eye of a storm, curtains of hazy, almost granular darkness seeping out of him in every direction; the next?

Nothing, his vision _gone_ , a pearl of mocking laughter hounding Peter into the gloom.

"Oh, this is just rich!" the smug creep sounds so happy with himself,  _"_ Both of you came here acting like hot shit; but now what, fuckers?! _"_  

And then from the peanut gallery: “Hell yeah, Blindside!”

"Shut up, you worthless shit.” Peter doesn’t need eyes to see the annoyance, there. He drops to his belly poised to move, keeps his breathing even like Shang Chi taught him.

“Christ, don’t even know why I let you con me into this,” Blindside continues. “Coulda done it myself and made twice as much bank! Shit! And now I’m covered in these goddamn—what are they, _webs_?” the sound of a struggle, multiple thumps against the ground. “Spider-douche and his stupid webs, goddamn. Of all the fucking—webs! Like that’s even a _thing_! And then the idiot’s got the nerve to flirt on the job _besides_.”

"You realize I can still hear you, right?” Cindy doesn’t sound too far off. Or stressed—which is more than what Peter can say. “Because if not, wow. I’m almost embarrassed _for_ you. Get your money back or something.”

“Yeah, man.” Count on Slyde to be the voice of reason—but why does _he_ sound closer, too? “Cool it Blind…We’re not here to hurt anyone.”

More smacks against the linoleum, what sounds like boots padding across the floor. He tries to listen in, but Blindside apparently isn’t having the best night: “S-shut up, bitch! Don’t tell me what I know! Who do you think designed this suit?”

“A guy who should honestly know better by now,” Peter offers, listening for that second movement in the dark. “What was it, something like five minutes your last batch took to wear off, Blindy?”

Something heavy drops against the floor. Solid. “I’m stronger now, Web-head! Better equipped! You don’t run this joint anymore, ya hear me?!”

Peter grimaces. He’s never wanted that—conquest was Otto’s dream, the sole provenance of his “Superior,” approach to Spider-Man. Peter wanted to help. He wanted criminals to know they could be _more_ than the cards life had dealt them. Be more than just a name and a gimmick. But Doc Ock’s methods had been an arms race, a steady escalation of force that had led to the Big Apple being where it was now.

Goons like Blindside upping the ante just to compete.

"—Aw, lookit the widdle criminal trying to act all tough,” Cindy tuts Blindside as though he were a child, “Isn’t it just so adorable?”

“Oh, just you wait, Spider-bitch.” Blindside growls, “You’re going _first_. Soon as I get out…”

“Woah there, hold up a second, Blinds! How’s about let’s keep the misogyny to a minimum tonight, yeah? Or at least to terrible internet forums.”

The thumping becomes louder, more frantic. “And you’re right after her, Web-head!”

“Blind, it ain’t _that_ bad,” Slyde offers, unmistakably closer now. “Look at ‘em, they can’t even move! Let’s just do what we came for and get back to show Bla—”

“What? No chance in hell!” livid, they name is Blindside. “Get over there and finish them off—we have them on the ropes, you idiot!”

“Dude, we live on ropes.” Cindy shoots back.

Peter laughs. “Yeah, it’s uh…kind of our thing?”

“Shut. _Up_!” The next _thump_ from Blindside is followed by a second, lighter one. Peter’s Spider-sense goes wild in the moment after, forces him to the ceiling as a spray of bullets screams past wild beneath him. “Do you _ever_ stop talking?”

What neither Spider says out loud is how rough the going is, how hard breathing and moving are starting to feel in the darkness. Blindside used to be one trick, all shock and awe; but whatever this new toxin is? It burns Peter’s lungs and sets a fire at his every joint and tendon. Enhanced metabolism or no: prolonged exposure is not an option. He has to move.

“—I can vouch no for that one!” Cindy calls out, further away than she had been a second ago. “And the backseat swinging, holy co—Slyde, dang it, _stay down._ You’re throwing off my banter!”

 _What a good kid_. "Y’know, I actually get that question _a lot_?” He can’t waste his time searching; though Cindy might approach the problem with the knack of someone naturally gifted, Peter still needs to keep Blindside talking to parse where the goon might be. “Silk, you think the gift of gab might be our secondary mutation?”

Gunfire and scrambling hands and feet herald her answer: “Little busy here, Spidey!”

“Today’s the last time either of you will hear anything!” Spider-sense keeps Peter quipping for another day. Blindside may have an advantage in terms of sight, but he may as well fire blind for all the kick his semi-auto seems to have. “Goddammit, this was supposed to be an easy job! Why’re two of you fuckers here? And why the hell now? Who did I piss—just stand still, you arachnid ass!”

Peter doesn’t and won’t, twisting through the air even as a bullet—sharp pain, hiss of air, grit teeth—grazes his shoulder. “Sorry, can’t do that!” he calls out over the din. “Though I’m actually kinda impressed, Blindside! Points for knowing your subphylum!”

“—How the shit can you even tell where I’m going to shoot?!”

Roof to floor to roof again, keep moving, don’t stop, just _go,_ heart jackhammering in his ears louder than the gunfire trying to find its mark. He’s lost blood from over a dozen places, re-opened wounds Black Cat cut into him not hours ago—and it comes to Peter then and there that might be the trick to this. He _inhaled_ the neurotoxin. It seeped _into_ his skin.

Adrenaline and sweat.

He goes unnecessary, becomes a metahuman super-ball ricocheting off every flat surface between himself and Blindside. Every inch of him screams at the exertion. Bullets worry him, another takes him at the thigh, makes him stumble, makes him hesitate—

But he keeps moving.

There’s a single, heavy smack of flesh-on-flesh. Something heavy crumples to the ground, thudding twice before laying still. But Peter isn’t the cause.

Cindy cracks her knuckles.

“And that, friends, is how you knock someone the fug out.” there’s a smile in her voice, her eyes a little _too_ bright. “Y’know, I actually used to get in trouble for that—mom said it wasn’t “lady-like,” or refs thought I was being too aggressive on the ice…But look at me now, right? Solving stuff almost _exclusively_ by punching it.”

“Punching does fix a lot of problems,” Peter’s vertigo, however, is not one of them; he sways on his feet. “…Can you see yet?”

She nods. “Lil’ bit, just shapes and vague outlines—you can’t?”

Peter shakes his head, loses adrenaline on the next exhale. “Web the intake fans on Blind’s suit, then go make sure Slyde’s still in one piece-and-or-place. Good job on that, by the way.” he gives her a thumbs-up. “Boys in blue should be here any minute.”

"Phrasing. And, thanks. Hang tight while I check on twip numero two.” Cindy’s voice fades in volume as she walks away. Peter feels around for something to sit down on, finds a chair and plops into it. “Wait, question—” Cindy continues from across the way, “That wasn’t your average punch-up with Blindside, was it?”

Peter leans back to stretch his spine. “What gave it away?”

“Gott the feeling you shouldn’t be this wrecked, if it was.” her voice comes from the left of him, matter-of-fact. “I mean, er. Not that I thought it was easy or anything, going blind is kind of up there on my list of Things I Did Not Expect to Happen Today, just. Hhn. Well...Slyde? And you did get kicked around by your Ex—”

“ _Black Cat_.”

“—Or whatever, earlier. So maybe that’s it?” She makes a noncommittal sound. “It just feels like we hit the third level on Battletoads for some reason.”

“Yeah, well. The gas was a new trick,” Peter admits, blinking as his sight comes back piecemeal. “Feels like he upped the dosage—your throat doesn’t feel weird, or anything?” a beat. “And phrasing for _what_?”

“There’s plenty of ladies on the force by now, Spidey. Get with the twentieth already, we’re waiting.” the irony of her statement isn’t lost on him; she continues regardless: “—Er, one more question, I guess? How are you about good news, bad news right now; scale of one-to-ten?”

Peter shakes his head in lieu of actually being able to rub his eyes. Chem 101: don’t touch your face when handling weird black neurotoxin. “What’s the good news?”

“Good first, you sure?”

He waves her question away, though for all he can see “Cindy” may as well be support pillar.

“Alright, sooo…Good news is that we won, obviously, and it looks like these two were going to make off with a _lot_ of cash if we hadn’t gotten here on time. So. Yay for us!”

He gets it, then.

“—But Slyde’s gone.” Peter interrupts, most of the world coming back into 20/20. “Perfect.”

Cindy rubs the scruff of her neck on approach, eyes to the floor and guilt in her every atom. While catching Blindside is a definite mark in the win column, “Silk” hasn’t been around long enough to take what victories she can. To her, even one villain getting away is tantamount to her letting them go free. And Peter, he knows where that line of thought can go.

He stands up (shaking only a little) and settles a hand on her shoulder.

"Hey, don’t sweat it, alright? Maybe Blindside knows where he went,” he gestures to the crook with a gentle cant of his head. “And if not…Slyde’s not the type to beat yourself up over losing. Might be a different person in the suit now and then, but I get the feeling this new guy’s not going on a violent rampage anytime soon.”

She’s quiet for a moment. Sighs, but chucks him on the shoulder. “You’re really bad at pep-talks, Spidey. Anyone ever tell you?”

“Blame it on the blood-loss,” he shrugs.

When Blindside comes back around, he finds himself cocooned to the floor with two Spiders crouching over him. On Discovery Channel, this would be the part where they ate him whole.

"So, Blindy. This is the part where we eat you—” Peter sucks in a breath as Cindy elbows him, tries not to rub his side despite the pain. “—Ow. And by that, I mean this is where my lovely assistant and I are going to ask you a few questions about tonight, m’kay? Blink twice for yes, once for no.”

He tries to spit at them, misses by a country mile. “My mouth isn’t covered, you dumb f—”

Another sudden and on-set case of web-to-mouth. Cindy holds her hand up like a pistol and blows the barrel of her index finger. “As Spider-Man was saying, we’ve got a few questions for you. First up is if you know where your pal Slyde astroglided off to?”

“Astroglided?” Peter echoes.

She holds a hand up to Peter’s face. Blindside blinks.

“Alright, you’re either lying—and if so, wow: I guess honor among thieves is a thing even if they’re crap—ooooor you don’t know.” she sighs, runs a hand through her hair in frustration. “Next one’s easier, then: did you try to hurt anyone tonight? Outside of us, I mean.”

It’s slow, but he eventually blinks.

Peter waves a hand in front of Blindside’s face. “Didn’t hurt anyone, but you obviously upgraded your mix and your suit—don’t blink yes for that one, I know your old gear didn’t include a facemask.” A beat of quiet, “Is it poisonous?”

_Blink blink._

“Cool, so if I did this—” he finds the SMG Blindside was using and bring it eye-level, makes sure the man is looking before he crushes the barrel with one hand. “—to the circuit controlling your fan system, all that’d happen is you’d be blind like we were for a while, right?”

He blinks so fast Peter has to tell him to slow down.

“Glad we’re all being adults about this,” he rocks on the pads of his feet, stroking an imaginary beard. “Was Slyde wearing an upgraded suit, too?”

 _Blink blink_.

“Which explains how he got away, but not _how_ -how.” Peter looks at Cindy. She nods before walking over to where Slyde had been, “I know you practically invented this get-up, Blindy, but Slyde’s working with a hand-me-down. Did you upgrade his gear for him?”

 _Blink._ Meaning—

“Black Cat did it for you.”

—He should’ve known.

“Just like Dragonclaw, awesome.” Cindy adds, walking back. “Looks like she found a new creep to help pimp her guys out for a fun night on the town.” she sighs; in some ways, she looks more tired than Peter. “Think they have an eight-hundred number?”

“Phrasing,” he gets a roll of her eyes for that. “And, I don’t know. When’s the last time either of us used the Yellow Pages? Or anyone ever, for that matter?”

She tosses him an incredulous look. “Didn’t you—” falters, tries her best to recover. “—oooor best friend work for a newspaper? Yeah, um. That Parker guy…?”

“…Point.” the glare he gives back isn’t entirely kind. “But, I think our pal here can help us better than spending tonight figuring out if one-eight-hundred-pimp-my-super-villain exists. So,” Peter turns back to regard Blindside. “If I take the web off your mouth, you gonna cooperate until the police get here?”

“And not spit at anyone again, geez.” Cindy adds, “Your mother raised you better than that.”

They give him time to consider. It’s a longshot; Blindside owes them nothing, and whatever happens his night still ends on the wrong side of a jail cell. But, Peter hopes.

 _Blink_.

And sometimes, that’s enough.

 _Blink_.

They remove the web around Blindside’s mouth. From what Peter can tell, there’s time enough for maybe a handful of questions at best before the police arrive. “Let’s get the easy stuff out of the way first, then. Lightning round!” he explains, raising a hand to count off his fingers. “Black Cat: the where, how, and why. Spill.”

His answer is a tense shake of the head. “That’s not how this works, Spider. I’m not a goddamn sellout,” of course he isn’t; they never are. “You know what the Cat does to those who cross her. I’m not ending up like Ringer.”

Peter’s seen it first hand, but he’d hoped Blindside hadn’t. Not yet. It means Black Cat’s reputation as a crime lord was growing—and Peter honestly doesn’t know how to feel about that. Not yet.

Cindy tilts her head, "Buuut you’re still working for her. Robbing banks and stuff? That’s just a _little_ weird.” she looks at Peter, then nods, apparently satisfied with his none-answer. “Lil’ weird, yeah. Who goes from being a free agent to shacking up with Catzilla?”

“She has a point, Blindy. Maybe you changed, but this new Slyde doesn’t exactly strike me a “Masters of Terror,” material like the old one.” Peter steeples his fingers, elbows resting on his knees. “To quote my man Seinfeld: what’s up with that?”

Cindy laughs under her breath. “God, you’re old.”

“Shush, Padawan, the master is at work,” Peter leans forward, eyes narrowing. “Blindside knows what I’m getting at. You can’t get something for nothing in this town.”

“Could be,” the crook shrugs, relenting only after a brief pause. “Or _would_ be, I guess. If you two hadn’t fucked that to hell and back.”

“What do you mean?” Peter asks.

Blindside looks away, mumbling something underneath his breath. Peter doesn’t need enhanced senses to understand it’s decidedly unkind.

He tries to throw the crook a lifeline. “Sorry, I didn’t quite hear that?”

“Eat shit, Spider.” the man growls.

Cindy flicks Blindside square on the forehead, his skull smacking back against the floor with an audible thud. “ _Rude_ , much?”

“So…” Peter waits for Blindside to lift his head. “We stopped you and Slyde from robbing this bank, but that’s kind of a slow Tuesday the way New York is right now.” He crosses his arms, rocks back on his heels. “I’ll ask again: where’s Cat figure in?”

“Maybe this shithole reminds her of a Calico she had?” the tough guy act is starting to fray Peter’s last nerve. “Who the hell even knows, way she’s been acting lately.”

Peter’s eyebrow goes up of its own accord. “Aaaaaand stoolie says what, now?”

The look on Blindside’s face—the lower, uncovered portion at least—is one Peter knows rather well. Jaw opens slightly, closes, a swirl of the tongue against the insider of a cheek, entire head canting slightly to the _left_ ; the look of a man caught letting on more than he should know. Peter tries not to sigh in relief.

They’re getting somewhere.

“You want to work for her, but you think she’s nuts. Slyde made it sound like you two weren’t just here for money.” Cindy offers, sounding none-too-impressed. “God, why do I feel like your ex was, like, _Queen_ Mean Girl back in high-school?”

Peter scoffs. “That’s not the Black Cat I know, believe me.”

“Ever hear the words “trial run,” you idiots?” Blindside snarls with contempt. “The fuck do you think is going on—that the Cat just throws a bone to any ex-con with a suit and a record?”

Peter and Cindy share a look, both shrugging at the same time. “Seems like it.”

“Fuck you.” Blindside twists against the webs cocooning him, veins in his neck straining. “—Can’t believe I get pinched the night you two freaks are out on a _date_. What’re the odds?”

“Zero-to-nil, since that’s not what’s going on.” Cindy taps Peter on the shoulder, leans in close to whisper: “Kinda running out of time here, P. Silk-sense is telling me New York’s Finest are three, maybe two streets away.”

“Don’t make a big to do about it,” he whispers back before clapping his hands. “Alright, lightning round’s over, ladies and germs! Now let’s figure out what exactly our fabulous contestant has won!” police sirens wail in the distance, drawing closer. “Oh, the network is telling me he has to answer one more question before we break for commercials. Mister Blind, would that be alright with you?”

The corner of Blindside’s mouth twitches. “There aren’t enough middle fingers in the world, Spider-Man.”

“Dude, you’re going to jail either way,” Cindy explains, hand on one hip. “Maybe being nice’ll help us pay back the favor.”

Peter nods, emphatic. “I know people on the force, Blindy. Good people—they can help you, maybe get you reduced sentencing, but it’s all on you. Helping put Black Cat behind bars will make settling all of this Games of Thrones Mafioso junk going on a _lot_ easier.”

Blindside seems to consider that for a moment, laying there prone and immobile. Peter knows they won’t have time to go over fine details, but just a simple “yes” could lead to so much. Tonight they won’t bring Black Cat’s burgeoning empire down, he knows that, but if they have an in…if Blindside agrees to help, they at least have a start. Dynamite and a layout of castle walls. He waits, imagines the police are awfully, awfully close by now.

“…Fine, Spider, have it your way.” Blindside sighs, almost heaves exhaustion at them, “I’ll talk. But if you don’t come through for me on this, I fucking swear—”

Spider-sense and a rush of heat.

The rest becomes an anguished scream, the exposed parts of Blindside’s suit shifting from matte black to incandescent, blistering red within the span of a heartbeat.

xxx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The Kingpin was ousted from New York by the Superior Spider-Man in “Superior Spider-man #14,” and is presumed missing since the events of the graphic novel “Spider-Man: Family Business.”


	3. You Get What You Pay For

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had a slight scheduling conflict that prevented me from updating yesterday, sorry folks!
> 
> I'm also going to give a tentative warning that the next Friday update may be pushed back to Nov 13th due to mid-terms.

* * *

Blink and you’ll miss it.

Here is Peter Parker desperate to save a life. No hesitation, no jokes, no puttering around to debate if this is another trick; there isn't time. The world narrows to motion and the act. He pours sweat, claws and tears manic into the webbing holding Blindside in place. Cindy is next to him cutting and yanking, working faster than Peter could ever hope to match. Sirens wail between his ears—most stories, this is the end. This is where the police arrive to ash and the lingering smell of charred skin. The difference between life and death can be moments.

But Peter’s been a breath late and a buck short some fifteen years running.

It takes them five seconds to dismantle Blindside’s suit and pull him screaming from the jaws of death. Conflagration is too kind a word for what follows—his costume doesn’t burst into flame, no. Burst implies a root cause, a design: the whir of a mechanism or an audible click of a failsafe. This fire simply _becomes_.

(He remembers the last inferno he stood inside of, the way Felicia had left Aunt May and Jay to die. Smiled about it.

 _That Felicia’s gone,_ she’d said, a ghost in the heat haze. _Burned away._ _I’m through being what other people want._ 1

Is this what she meant?)

Red and blue lights flicker through the windows. No time to leave a cute note2; Peter makes for the exit before things get dicey. Papers like the Bugle Cindy had been kind to Spiders in recent months, but some on the force still resented what Otto had done. When he stumbles—naturally—Cindy shoulder the burden of their retreat, half-carrying, half-dragging Peter up to a rooftop nearby as New York’s finest rush into the bank.

They wait until someone mounts Blindside on a stretcher before leaving.

Nothing is said on the way back to Peter's apartment. Cindy lingers near the window after letting Peter go—partly, he thinks, to make sure he doesn't keel over—while Peter bumbles a path through the living room. The aftereffects of Blindside's neurotoxins have him lethargic and seasick, his vision squirming at the edges. Hopefully, Anna Maria isn’t home3; the proportionate reflexes of a spider mean jack-all to wayward furniture in the dark.

“Liiiitle bit to the left, Spidey.” Cindy offers, just this side of enjoying his struggle. “That coffee table looks expensive.”

“We don’t have a—” his knee banging into said table says otherwise. Cindy laughs quietly when he turns to shoot her a glare. “…Y’know, all my love for Chaplain aside? Physical humor is still the lowest form of comedy.”

Cindy wags both eyebrows and pantomimes shaking a cigar. “Nyuck, nyuck, nyuck.”

“Juuuust what I needed,” Peter muses, shaking his head in the dark. “A sidekick ripped out of an ACME cartoon.”

“Who’re you calling sidekick, buddy?” the quip brings out Brooklyn in her voice. “My brand is just as old as yours—same spider4, remember?”

“Yeah, but I—” he _almost_ makes a comment about not being held hostage by Ezekiel, but catches himself. “—am incredibly tired. And grody. And in desperate need of a shower.”

Cindy’s whistle is, thankfully, low enough not to travel the apartment.

“Not an invitation, Cin.” he adds.

She scoffs, cants her head to give Peter a rather skeptical look. “Don’t flatter yourself, Petey—old fogey like you, hot young thing like me? _Puh_ -leeze.” toned arms cross at her chest, “George Clooney, you ain’t.”

“—We’re the same age, Moon.”

“And yet, here you are—” she gestures to the living room, arm sweeping the air in front of her. “Wandering around in the middle of the night, it’s way past your bedtime, you’re all dazed and confused, asking how in _tar_ -nation you could misplace an entire door.”

Peter feels his way around the loveseat just south of the couch. “First off: that was a terrible Yosemite Sam impression. Just. _Terrible_. And second, I’m not—” his jaw clamps shut at the sound of his foot hitting a rather large vase. Though he manages to catch it in time, Cindy still snorts a quick laugh. “Shut up.”

“I’ll make sure to put you in a nice home, Gramps. They’ll take you out for walks and everything.”

When Peter does manage to find the door to his room, Cindy gives him a slow, mocking clap. Cracks wise about how ironic it would be if a dark room finished off Spider-man where a villain literally named _Blindside_ couldn’t.

She’s a good kid.

(Peter doesn’t know if he would’ve survived the night without her, tells her as much when she’s about to leave. She smiles and chucks him on the shoulder.)

He spends an hour washing himself clean, another half to pluck out the bullet in his thigh without screaming. (Too much). Dressing his wounds is another can of worms; Felicia beat him ugly, left him bruised and bleeding from a dozen places. His torso is an abstract watercolor, pale yellow and blues discoloring the skin piecemeal. A gash at his hip needs six stitches. Another across his right bicep takes four. His ribs ache, every breath like sipping fire.

 _This used to be easier_ , he muses halfway through bandaging his torso. Only Osborn and Venom ever made a habit of wrecking him—he knew Felicia was angry, angrier than he’s ever seen, but it hadn’t been apparent until tonight. Not until Blindside.

By the time Peter crawls into bed, the neon green of his clock reads 5:40 in the am, mocking him from the nightstand. He sleeps ragged, tossing and turning while a hundred different theories rattle the inside of his skull.

( _I chose not to see what you were becoming_ , he tells Wraith in his dreams5, chasing Captain Watanabe past a New York skyline that warps and quakes with every step. _If I’d faced the truth_ —

He hears Blindside scream. The crack of Felicia’s iron whip. Captain Watanabe breaking a man’s neck. Otto Octavius cursing the world, trapped and dying in a body that will slowly fail him. Silver Sable. Aleksei. Marla Jameson. Charlemagne. Ben. _Kaine_. Dozens of other Spiders he never knew, hundreds of others Peter knows he could never save. Not realistically.

The _snap_ of a webline pulled tight and Norman Osborn laughing.

— _Maybe I could’ve helped you_.) 6

It’s a rough night, to say the least.

***

The next morning, Peter wakes to a cavalcade of dull pains and bruises. He takes care to dress smart; a lifetime of explaining the sudden spread of bloodstains color-coordinate him in dark blue and black, a thick wool sweater over his shirt and the bandages underneath. Breakfast is a rushed affair consisting of a protein shake—God bless Anna, it’s waiting for him in the fridge with a copy of his schedule—and a fistful of granola bars. By the time he polishes off his third, Converse hit pavement and he’s scouring Anna’s printout for what the day has in store.

Today: CEO before Spider-man.7    

His latest project is a downscaling of the first, namely how Parker Industries could aide New York in dealing with its non-stop circus of empowered criminals. After the fiasco with Electro8, Peter realized he had to think smaller—not huge machines and expensive traps, but an actual proper way to inhibit and contain without involving dehumanizing collars or billion-dollar jail cells. Sajani, of course, was against the whole thing, wanted Parker Industries to delve more into the world of super-powered suits and weaponry; but Peter knew where that road would lead. Piggybacking Otto’s mind for so long had shown him how escalation and shows of force only made things worse, with Black Cat his prime example. Hardline criminals didn’t kowtow to strength; they adapted and evolved.

Which was where the “Superior” Spider-man had failed—Otto saw crime as the abstract of a hypothesis, a thing he could solve using the scientific method. His success hinged on quantifiable results. Numbers and charts.

However, New York was not a laboratory. It wasn’t sterile. A plummeting crime rate only told part of the story—Peter had come back to a city where even purse-snatchers could fly.

In his absence, the Friendly Neighborhood changed.

(But, so had Spider-man.) Peter taps the red shell of his earpiece to speed-dial Sajani. The phone rings twice before going to voicemail—no surprise there—so he leaves her a message.

 _Hey San, I’m ten, maybe fifteen minutes out from the office—today’s when we stress test the new inhibitor chips, right_?

His breath fogs in the air as he sighs. Autumn in New York casts every borough in a hundred different shades; Brooklyn feels lighter, less frantic, every tree that dots its avenues filled with vibrant oranges and reds. Fallen leaves crinkle beneath his shoes, hundreds of them coating the ground. Most days, it takes an hour or so to walk from his and Anna’s apartment to the new location of Parker Industries.

Today, he doesn’t have the luxury.

A common misconception of New York is that it’s a city of alleys. Decades of Hollywood paint the Big Apple rotten, make it seem as though NY were a maze of shortcuts and dilapidated backstreets. It just isn’t true; more often than not, Peter has to duck behind a van or scale entire buildings if he wants to change into his suit. It takes him anywhere between thirty seconds to a minute without interruptions—Sajani calls back just as he’s pulling off his shirt.

“— **Parker**!” Peter winces at the volume, head jerking away on reflex. “Where in the _hell_ are you!?”

“…On my way to work?” And currently half-nude on top of an apartment complex, “Good morning to you too, by the way—how’s the song go, again?” he hums a few experimental bars while pulling off his shoes. “The best part of waking up is twenty decibels in your ear?”

She kisses her teeth. “Stow it, Parker. I’m six cups and two Adderall not in the mood.”

Peter whistles; he’d have to tell Anna about that. “What’s up, Doc? Amphetamines and coffee do not a healthy breakfast make.”

“No, probably not. Both, however, are synonymous with _crunch_. Which is where this project has been sitting at for the past week—a moment, if you would?” Her attention diverts off thir call to bark orders at someone that isn’t Peter. When she returns, the Webhead swears he can hear soft sobbing in the background. “—You're still on the line. Amazing. I am literally amazed. Now, where was I before I went off to save our company yet again?”

“You said something about a deadline; I pretended to be an adult and suggested you might need a breather.” Not that any of them could afford one; with most of their projects destroyed with their main office, Parker Industries was in a bad way. “—or, like. _At least_ a week in Bermuda doing whatever lets you recharge the concentrated ball of rage you call a heart.” So, Peter jokes. “Any of that sound about right?”

“For one: no, I actively despise the heat. And for two: you omitted how I stay young and beautiful by gouging out the hearts of incompetent CEOs,” Sajani makes it sound less a joke and more a promise, a dark sort of laugh between her teeth.

Peter just snorts, pulls on his mask before firing a webline skyward.

“I hear nerdy white-boy goes well with a glass of Monster,” he says dryly. “One question, though. Before we start hate-flirting again: have you implemented the revisions I sent?”

He knows Sajani has no reason to humor him. She thinks his project is a waste of money, a naïve fantasy he can only afford to pursue as CEO of their company. For her, rehabilitating criminals was as much a worthwhile goal as letting them live in the first place.

That said: it’s his name at the bottom of their business cards.

“For a given definition of those words, yes.” she explains, annoyance clear in her voice. The _tick-tap_ of her typing away echoed over the line. “Should I alert the Bugle? We could hold a press-conference extolling how you’ve finally done an iota of work.”

Peter laughs, can’t help it really, the traffic lights he vaults from to shoot another webline shuddering in their post.

“Okay, Parker. I’ll bite: what’re you so smug about?” Sajani asks, curious-by-way-of-annoyed.

 _‘Cuz you’re too proud to spite me with a rush-job_ , Peter thinks; says instead: “Because I knew making you general project manager was a good decision, Doctor Jaffrey. Reworking the motherboard of our prototype would’ve taken months for a lesser mind,” he almost gags at saying it, but vomit thirty stories up is worse than a white lie. “Kudos on exceeding all expectations.”

“Ah, of course. Naturally,” she preens, and for a second Peter almost thinks it’s the start of a beautiful new friendship. “I’d call it your best decision to date, but even broken clocks are correct twice a day.”

“Oh, but don’t you say the sweetest things.”

“Parker, I’m three PhDs and a hundred IQ over falling for the boy-next-door tragedy you call ‘game,’ so stop right there.”

“San, I’m sensing just the tiniiiiest amount of hostility, here. Just a smidge.”

“Hostile is what these interns consider good coffee,” For someone who takers the stuff black and almost four times a day, the growl in her voice is a mild reaction. “Some of the most quote brilliant unquote minds in their fields, and not a one knows how to put together a decent cuppa—do you hear me, you clowns?!”

Peter clucks his tongue, admonishing. “Hey, let’s play nice with the new fish, yeah? We both know Ivy League means jack-all without results.”

“Results.” she echoes, dripping hydrochloric acid. “Thus far, we have one successful test of your insane pipedream, and all it cost was _an entire office building_. Never mind the list of investors who bailed after seeing an estimate of how much it would cost to replace the damn thing.”

“Ah, but it _did_ work,” Peter smirks as he twists through space. “Earth-shattering-kabooms notwithstanding, natch.”

“You used that word again, the one I’m certain you’ve no idea what it means.” Sajani grumbles, inhales once before her fingers desist typing. Oh oh. “—Parker, do you know why I signed on to this little venture of yours?” she asks, “Why I, despite multiple government contracts and my cushy gig at Horizon, chose to put all my eggs in one basket and support a man whose entire career could be summarized with a single idiom?"

“That’s more than one question,” the threat of her literal snarl makes Peter backpedal pretty quick, “Alright, alright; geez. Probably gonna kick myself for asking, but—”

"Those who can, _do_." she cuts him off, “And those who can't, _teach_. It’s simple, it’s math, and the logic speaks for itself.” she trails off, berates someone nearby for something Peter can't quite hear, then turns back to Peter with a slight growl in her voice. “Kind of like your rampant absenteeism these past months.”

“Yeowch,” Peter gives a nervous laugh, feels his inside twist. “I see today we’re skipping hate-friendly banter and going straight to laying into me.”

Her laugh—if you could call it that—is a low, breathless sound. “No, we’re not. Which is what I’ve been trying to impress upon you since you called—whatever you think this is, whether it’s some part of your tragic backstory as a kid genius or whatever?” he can almost picture the air quotations. “Is not happening. We’ve had too many set-backs in the past forty-eight hours for me to humor you, right now.”

“Set-backs?” he repeats, stomach flipping in a way that has nothing to do with mixing granola and thirty-mile-an-hour web-swinging. “Why wasn’t I informed? I feel that’s something I should know about.”

Her derisive snort is answer enough, but Doctor Sajani Jaffrey is nothing if not thorough. “Maybe because I can’t afford to keep an eye on you, the interns, your pet project, and our business without spontaneously developing an X-gene, Parker—never mind the fact that I am not your _secretary_.” she practically spits the word, “Nor, may I remind you, is Anna Maria.”

Ouch. She has a point, though: somewhere between Black Cat and tracking down the Wraith, Peter seemed to forget his surname wasn't Stark. Outside of Sajani and Anna Maria, he had no one he could rely on to manage Parker Industries for him. Worse yet, his first month spearheading the company saw them lose millions. If it hadn't been for Sajani—and Peter admittedly selling Tony a few designs for suits—they'd have gone bankrupt.

Not the best feeling, that.

(Especially when nearly a hundred people relied on Peter to make sure their paychecks didn’t bounce.)

There was no logical reason for him to stay CEO of Parker Industries. If he’s honest, taking the reins from Otto had been a bad idea, possibly the worst in a year chock full of them.

Peter had no experience. No vast network of contacts or resources. Hell, it had taken his literal death and a madman bogarting Peter's entire life for him to finish his Doctorate—whom was he even kidding with this? Why pretend? And why _keep_ pretending for so long?

Otto Octavius was dead. He had fathered no children, left nothing but a legacy of crime and disaster in his wake—the “Superior” Spider-man only in how much havoc he caused.

Only Peter knew the other side of the story.

Only Peter had seen the man Otto could have become.

(Only Peter had seen Otto Octavius die.)

 _That's why I have to make it work_ , he thinks, vaulting off the roof of an apartment complex while Sajani berated another intern. _Parker Industries isn't mine, but I can do good_ _with it. Make it stand for something more than weapons development and the mess its predecessor left behind. I just have to—_

Sajani clears her throat.

 “—Alright, point taken,” he answers, swings less like an acrobat to try and cut through the air with purpose. “I’ll be at the office in five, maybe less. Can we play nice when I get there?”

There’s a pause, a weighing of options on the other end of the line.

“Testing the new iteration of your inhibitor starts at noon, Parker. Don’t be late.” Sajani explains, gone any previous hint of annoyance. Peter is almost impressed; when she’s not feasting on the souls of the innocent, Sajani could be quite professional.

“Fantastic. I’ll see you then,” he reaches up to click out of the call, but—

"Before you attend that inevitable fiasco, however,” she continues, not missing a beat. “I believe Anna Maria wants me to relay a message.”

***

The new (temporary) offices of Parker Industries are squirreled away inside four warehouses on Brooklyn’s lower east side. After Ghost razed their last compound to the ground, Sajani and Peter both thought it prudent to hide their workplace from the public eye. It’s a stopgap solution, and one Alchemax9 certainly benefits from—it’s hard to “wow” investors when your showroom floor doubles as storage space—but at least they’re safe.

Or so Peter thought.

Anna Maria meets him at the front door of the first warehouse, her smile tight and steps quick. She’s in an obvious rush, still clothed in her white lab-coat, a pair of thick safety googles hanging by their strap from her neck, her jet-black hair done up in a sensible—if somewhat tousled—bun. Peter waves as she lets him in.

“God, you look a mess,” she says, brown eyes taking him in at a glance. Peter inwardly curses at the look; he forgot to put make-up over the worst of his bruises this morning. “If you’re thinking of going to the meeting like that, we’re gonna have to do this faster than I’d like. Geez,” she gives him another brief up-and-down, one corner of her mouth screwing into the beginning of a frown. “What happened?”

“Would you believe seven years bad luck?” he raises a shoulder, dismissive; knows it’s a crap rhetorical but that Anna’ll roll with it anyway. She fixes him with an incredulous look before letting out a slightly put-upon sigh.

“Save that one as a prospective title for your autobiography. C’mon, champ—we’ll say you got jumped or something. It’s probably a better story than...” Another length-wise glance, her frown becoming a light grimace, “Y’know what, I don’t want to know. Hoof it, mister.”

She takes him by the hand and leads them to the nearest bathroom, ducking in first to make sure the coast is clear. Peter follows suite after counting to thirty, tries not to look too out-of-place for whomever might be watching before pushing his way through the door. (Thank God Sajani had agreed with Horizon’s unisex bathroom policy when they designed their new office space.)

Anna is waiting for him near the sink, the contents of her purse spilled out over the steel countertop. He locks the door, watches her sort through different shades of foundation and concealer with a careful eye. One thing Peter admired in Anna was how prepared she always was; even after calling back to mention he was in no shape to attend the meeting Sajani had told him about, Anna remained unflappable. _Just get your butt over here and I’ll take care of it_ , she’d said, and Peter believed every word.

“Alright, this might sting a little. Oh, don’t give me that look, Pete—I’m pretty sure one layer’ll do it, even with your _pote de leche_ complexion,” Anna explains, misinterpreting Peter’s silence for hesitance. She holds up a small pot of concealer, shakes it while giving him a sideways glance. Expectant.

”How sure’s pretty sure?” he asks, crossing his arms loose at his chest. “Looking like a clown might not be the most strategic approach.”

Anna Maria gives his incredulous look a roll of the eye. “Don’t sass the person who’s going to do your make-up. Right now, I’m holding your fate literally in the palm of my hand.”

Peter cocks a lazy half-grin. “Who says I can’t do it myself, oh Beneficent One?”

“Several centuries of inherited Spanish machismo, unfortunately.” she fires back, motioning for Peter to come over. A beat later, she seems to realize what he said, popping a skeptical eyebrow. “—wait, you actually know what any of this stuff is?”

Peter can’t help but laugh, walks over to Anna and kneels down when she motions for it. “What, like it’s hard?” he quotes, effecting the best bubbly blonde voice he can muster.

“No, just not traditional. For men in our field, I mean,” Peter gives her a sour look, knows she means _nerds_. “I know, I know,” she hedges, waving him off, “Little bit sexist, but cast stones after you’ve gone through your PhD as a woman in love with the sciences.”

Fair point, that. Peter holds still as Anna Maria goes to work. “I’ll admit I had a great teacher.”

“Mm. Your ex, right?” Anna Maria hazards, grabbing at Peter’s chin to tilt his face back toward the light, “The leggy redhead-slash-physical-embodiment-of-every-girl’s-high-school-body-image-issues.”

“Most folks call her Mary Jane. Y’know, for short.”

“Stand still,” she warns, cuffing him light on the shoulder. “—Hate to say it, but I’m kinda with Doctor Jaffrey on that one.”

Hazel eyes flick upward. “Meaning?”

“She’s too pretty for you, obviously.” she sticks out her tongue, laughs before dabbing the space beneath his eye with concealer, gentle to not press too hard. “The two of us—Doctor Jaffrey and I—have a theory you might be a carrier for a low-level X-gene. It’s the only way we can figure how you’ve surrounded yourself with so many competent women.”

Peter snorts a laugh. “Hate to break it to ya, but MJ and I go way back.”

“So she knew all this in advanced? Oh lord—you really are the boy next door.”

“Well, what can I say? My charms are endless.”

“Apparently,” she briefly looks him in the eye, brow furrowed in concentration. “You’ll need it for this guy, I think. He was rather insistent when we talked.”

Peter winces as Anna thumbs the curve of his cheekbone, sucking in a breath. “Everyone keeps saying that—ow—what exactly am I in for, Anna? Sajani was a little vague between her bouts of attempted soul-sucking.”

“He’s supposedly here to represent a private group of investors. Which, A: makes no sense because we haven’t gone public with our research, and B: makes me think your _other_ ex-partner is involved.” 

Peter mulls that over while Anna puts the finishing touches to his face. To the public at large, Peter Parker and Spider-man had called it quits months ago. Anna, however, knew the truth—and with that realization, came an understanding. Peter could name twenty street-level criminals with a passing interest in corporate espionage, personally knew at least three by name and alter ego—the problem, then, was thinking _outside_ of Spider-man.

“Think it’s Alchemax?” he asks, eyes closed. Hopes he’s wrong.

“Could be,” Anna admits, “Said the company he worked for was called ‘Networked Containment Logistics’—ever heard of them?”

Peter shrugs. “Doesn’t ring a bell, but remember: I’m newer to this than you. They could be named ‘Twenty Years Spent Killing Avengers,’ and I’d only be hearing about it now.”

She nods. “You really did live under a rock, huh?” an accidental brush of the thumb makes Peter suck in air through his teeth. “— _geez_ , you gotta stop being so squirmy. This is a delicate procedure and I’m almost done making you look presentable.” she’s has a surprisingly strong grip, her hand to his shoulder to settle Peter in place. “Sajani can’t place the name, either. They’re not new-new, that we know already. NCL have something like five years of private contracts in Europe, mostly France; but other than that?”

“You’ve got nothing,” which means Peter has even less. He’ll have to meet the guy to see if it jogs any memories. “How insistent was he?”

“Very.” Anna dusts his cheeks with brush. “Doesn’t want to leave until he sees you.”

Peter sighs. “Great.”

“Good news, though? You look like a normal human being again,” Anna explains, taking a step back to admire her own handiwork. “I’ll accept payment in the form of clean dishes and you putting back everything you knocked out of place in the living room last night—and no,” she holds up a hand. “Still don’t want to hear about it.”

He grins, stands up and faces the mirror on the wall to give his face a quick once-over. Anna’s covered the brunt of souvenirs Felicia left him; his face looks new, healthy and fresh. The only thing she left untouched were the bags under his eyes. “Well, I definitely won’t be winning Miss New York anytime soon…” he looks down to see her scowling up at him, smiles back in gratitude. “But, you’re still a lifesaver, Anna. Thanks for coming to my rescue.”

“A girl and a boxer’s best friend—or so my dad used to say,” she gives Peter a thumbs-up, turns to start addressing the spill of make-up containers strewn across the counter.

“Smart guy,” he spends another few seconds checking himself over, careful not to touch where he feels concealer; Anna could’ve given MJ a run for her money. “—he have any advice for what I’m about to walk into?”

Anna pauses, a finger pressing to the dimple of her chin. “…You got any big sticks laying around?”

Peter lets the question hang in the air, smirks and crosses his arms when Anna finally looks back at him.

(The Charley horse to the leg is worth it, he thinks.)

***

After, it’s a short walk from the bathroom to the reception area. Peter enters first, scanning the room out of his periphery while he held the glass doors open for Anna.

Today’s company-wide trouble, as it turns out, came in the form of Bruce Willis. Or, at least someone with an uncanny resemblance to him—their visitor was a man in his mid-forties, bald and blue-eyed, with a hawkish nose and slightly ovular face, statuesque in a way that spoke of either narcissism or a lifetime of violence. He wore a dark navy business jacket over a simple white crew-cut shirt, tan slacks, and leather boots of a lighter brown: all expensive, all name-brand, his overall look somewhere between controlled dishevelment and casual disregard for everything that made Mary Jane get up in the morning.

Peter channels the Stark SmarmR as he offers his hand to the man. “Heeeey there, it’s great to finally meet you—sorry for the wait, Mister…” he steals a glance at the small digital nametag clipped to the man’s breast. “—Lock. But, hey! You know how this business goes, right?”

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Parker.” his voice is pleasant, modulated and almost...careful, in a way. Smooth. “The simple fact you’ve elected to meet with me—and without my scheduling it beforehand—speaks volumes of both yourself and those you work with,” he looks to Anna Maria, flashes her a brief smile. “Thank both of you for this opportunity.”

Oh, he’s good. “I will admit to being a little surprised, however. When I spoke to Ms. Marconi, she mentioned the name of your company—Networked Containment Logistics?” Peter motions to the plush leather chairs around the center table, “Did I pronounce that right?”

Anna Maria settles into the chair next to Peter and takes out her iPad. Lock passes the chairs closest to them and sits on the other side of the low glass table situated in the middle of the room, one leg crossing over the other, casual and confident. All business.

He nods at Peter. “Yes, NCL is a relatively new Aerospace and Defense Co-Op looking to break into the US market,” the motion of taking out and handing them each a business card is as smooth and perfunctory as Lock’s tone. “We deal with a number of companies on a worldwide scale—defense contractors, tech start-ups, non-profit organizations, small and privately funded research facilities, and the like. Our goal is to aid in the development and growth of what we feel are several disparate but interrelated fields, primarily those having to do with the containment and negation of empowered individuals.”

“All there in the name really,” Peter huffs a laugh, flips the offered card between his fingers. Lock has a nice smile for a corporate scumbag. “It’s an impressive mission statement, but why Parker Industries and not, say…a bigger player like CTE? Or even Stark Resilient?”

“The better question, I feel—” Anna Maria interrupts, honey brown eyes glancing over the rim of her iPad, “Is how your company even became interested in Parker Industries. Most, if not all of our research is classified private. Nor is it for sale.”

The statement hangs with an awkward sort of finality. Mr. Lock, however, seems to take it in stride. “We—which is to say, my employer—is of the belief innovation comes from the mind of the individual. While we do work with, shall we say, “big name,” companies—we more consider these entities middlemen between ourselves and the creators whose work we take a vested interest.”

Oh, he’s really good. Peter almost buys the sincerity in his voice.

“But you still profit from them.” It’s an obvious statement, but the way Anna says it implies something more. An angle, maybe.

“Of course,” he’s casual in the admittance, gestures airily with one hand. “Altruism and success often find themselves at odds with one another. Though we at NCL make responsible use of our product an _utmost_ priority, accidents can and have occurred in the past. We do our best to stymie these issues, of course—but, as I am more than certain you are both aware,” something has Lock’s ice blue eyes all a-twinkle. “Even the best intentions, no?”

“The Electro incident,” Anna Maria states, not missing a beat. Their first triumph and failure.

“Yes, the very same,” to his credit, Lock doesn’t sound as smug as Peter knows he could be. “Details of what occurred that night have made quite the stir within certain groups of the scientific community. A small, relatively unknown company headed—and, I say this only as hearsay, mind—by two of the brightest minds to come out of Horizon Enterprises?” he gestures both hands to the side, “Surely, you can see why my employer would find interest in your work?”

Peter gives a casual lift of the shoulder. “Interest in it, sure.”

“But you have concerns,” he says, hands steepled to his chain. There’s a beat a silence, a short amount of contemplation before Lock continues. He points to Peter. “Tell me, Mister Parker—what do you believe NCL would do with your product?”

Mm. Good question. What Peter answers with could give away company secrets. “Mister Lock, what I believe is, I think, ultimately irrelevant here,” he tells him, “The tech involved in the Electro case has various applications, depending on what needs doing.”

Lock nods along with every sentence, encouraging Peter to continue. He wrinkles up his face as if to carefully consider what to say next, brow knitting in equal parts concern and caution. “Mm. And if NCL were willing to fund your development for the next three years?”

“You want to—” he trails, blinks maybe once too many. “That’s quite an enticing offer, Mister Lock. One that has every warning klaxon in my head going off, but still.”

“Let’s say my employer were willing to foot the bill.”

“Danger, danger Wil Robinson.”

“Your development costs, materials, testing and prototyping, distribution if you’d allow it: all of it out of pocket.”

“Then I’d say they were insane,” Peter admits.

Lock beams the way a car-salesman would. “Brutal honesty is rare in business. Three years, Mister Parker. Let’s say my employer pays your company to finish what they started with Electro, rebuild what the Black Cat sabotaged that night. We facilitate, but you retain sole ownership.”

“And the other bridge you want to sell me is…?”

“Oh, nothing of the sort,” Lock smiles. “You keep the tech. Our only term would be allowing NCL to be the first door you knock on if—or when—you ever choose to sell. That’s all.”

Roughly translated: Lock and his employer didn’t want them selling to anyone else. Interesting. Peter looks at Anna Maria through his periphery, _hm_ s and thumbs his nose as though thinking about it. (Classic Stark.)

“We are willing to negotiate,” Lock explains. “As I said earlier: our intent is to aid, not own. My employer full well understands how generosity can sometimes breed suspicion. It’s only natural in the world we live.”

“Good to know. But, I’m still not convinced. Sorry—generous offers aside, defense contracts aren’t exactly our style at PI.” Ah, the old _it’s not me: it’s you_ speech. (It feels weird not being on the receiving end, for once.) Not that Peter would’ve considered it, anyway. He’d had his fill of weaponized science lately.

Lock’s smile falters. His expression becomes earnest, cracks a little. “Mister Parker, my employer is quite eager to establish a positive working relationship. If it’s a matter of money, we can offer more. You come highly recommended, after all.” Anyone else, the steepled hands would look ridiculous. Lock, however, makes it sincere—a question phrased as a statement. “We know you’ve worked for both Spider-man and Tony Stark in the past, but NCL is more than willing to compete.”

“You do?” Peter asks, Anna Maria chiming in with: ‘ _You are?’_ almost in the same breath.

“Is it so strange?” he asks, smoothly, as though they’re questioning the color of the sky. “Your work at Parker Industries and Horizon, while impressive, is not the sum total of your career.” The conversation is starting to get away from Peter, and he wonders if Lock knows more than he’s letting on. “It’s your drive, that will to innovate and continue doing _good_ which has so enamored my employer, Mister Parker.” The way he says it, Peter doesn’t know if Lock is trying the hard sell or setting him up on a blind date.

“Alright, so am I bringing flowers or red wine?” he picks the former, cracks a lazy smirk.

Lock almost returns it. “If you feel I’ve wasted your time at all, Mister Parker, I apologize. Again, the aim of our company is to innovate. You’ve made it a mission to sue for better treatment of empowered criminals. Better options. We simply believed our wants in this aligned.”

“And we’re supposed to believe that?” Anna Maria asks him. Peter doesn’t, but he didn’t want Lock to know that. It doesn’t help that he thinks the man still has something up his sleeve.

“No,” Lock answers, frankly. “In an age of Sentinels and groups such as Humanity First, your caution is warranted. They told me to expect as much. That you valued the moral high-ground.”

“Yeah, well. Some say I don’t have the _chutzpah_ to make it.”  
  
“I choose which 'they' I listen to very carefully,” Lock says. “Are you certain I cannot sway you, Mister Parker? I do not think our respective lines of work need be at odds with one another. My employer insisted I do everything to convince you over this matter.”

Peter flips Lock’s business card between his fingers, focuses on it. “You have to understand my position, Mister Lock. I’ve never heard of your company today. Or your stalkeriffic employer.”

His smile, perpetual until now, dims at the edges. He meets Peter’s gaze, holds it for a millisecond longer than strictly polite. The following sigh is perfunctory at best. “I understand, Mister Parker,” he says, nodding. “If you’ll excuse me, then?”

Before Peter can stand, Anna Maria is on her feet and in front of Lock. He looks down at her, not quite sure of what to expect until she hands him _Peter’s_ business card. “Thank you for your time. If your employer would like to arrange another meeting, give us a call—preferably before showing up on our doorstep.”

Lock tilts his head, his expression never changing, as Anna Maria offers her hand. Peter follows suite, stands up to give Lock a firm handshake of his own before seeing him to the door. Though neither of them accompanies him, a handful of tiny security bots—courtesy of Otto, natch—escort Lock back to the main entrance. Only Peter and Anna Maria knew about them; after finding out Sajani had tried to collude with Ghost during the attack, he promised himself he would stop taking chances with those he didn’t trust.

The thought still turns Peter’s insides, makes him set his jaw to ignore it. He’d learned in the past year to keep expecting the worst. For Spider-man, there was no such thing as a day off. Any crook, powers or not, could rattle him. And there were things out there, monsters greater than orphans and honest people trying to be heroes. He couldn’t let himself make mistakes.

( _No one dies_ _when Spider-man is around!_ he’d said, once upon a time.

Morlun and his family didn’t give a damn.)

But this, being a CEO and running a company, is still new to him, has Peter running numbers and what-ifs as Lock disappears down the hallway. He knows the inhibitor chips aren’t ready yet. Lock does, too. He has to; they were supposed to be their first step, not things to bargain with for capital. In the wrong hands, they’d be no better than Reed and Tony’s prison in the Negative Zone. Or Sentinels. But Lock had seemed adamant with his sincerity. For all intents and purposes, he had come to them without a duplicitous bone in his body.

Then again, so had Norman Osborn to a seventeen-year-old Peter Parker.

“Alright,” he starts, turning back to face Anna. “What was _that_ about?”  


* * *

**Notes;**

1)  **Amazing Spider-Man #18, (2015)** : Felicia kidnaps Aunt May and her husband, Jay Jameson, after they buy a piece of artwork that used to belong to her. She intends to take control of her life by setting fire to everything that reminds her of who she “used to be,” and when Peter arrives to save the day she flat-out tells him anyone who gets in her way is going to die.

2) One of Peter’s calling cards as Spider-man is to leave funny “Thank You,” notes for police at crime scenes.

3) Otto Octavius (Doctor Octopus) fell in love and moved in with a woman named Anna Maria during the events of Superior Spider-man. Peter hasn’t moved out yet, despite Anna knowing what happened. She knows he’s Spider-man and works with him to keep his secret.

4)  **The Amazing Spider-Man** **#** **1, (2015)** : Cindy Moon (Silk) got her powers from the same bite that turned Peter into Spider-Man.

5)  **The Amazing Spider-Man** **#** **20.1, (2015)** : Yuri Watanabe (Wraith) was once a captain in the NYPD. She’s the fourth person to don the Wraith suit to fight crime, but after a series of events disillusions her with the entire justice system--the Spiral storyline in _ASM 16.1-20.1 (2015_ —she decides to take matters into her own hands and work outside the law.

6)      **In order:**

  1. The events of chapter 2;
  2. The events of chapter 1;
  3. Bullet point 5, above;
  4. Doctor Octopus died due to a history of being beaten up by heroes;
  5. Silver Sable was killed by Aleksei (the Rhino) during _the Ends of the Earth_ storyline as revenge against Spider-man not being able to save Aleksei’s wife during _The Gauntlet_ storyline;
  6. Marla Jameson was killed by Alistair Smythe during the “Big Time” storyline while she tried to protect her husband, J. J. Jameson;
  7. An assassin Peter accidentally killed way back in
  8. Ben Reily, Peter’s second clone, died at the end of the _Clone Saga_ ( _Peter Parker: Spider-Man_  #75)
  9. Kaine Parker, Peter’s first clone, died at the end of the _Spiderverse_ storyline ( _T_ _he Amazing Spider-Man_ #15 (2015)
  10. Ned Leeds was a good friend of Peter’s who worked at the Bugle. He was pressured to become the Third Hobgoblin, and died while under mind control. ( _Spider-Man vs. Wolverine #1_ (1987)
  11. Charlemagne (Charlie) is an assassin Peter met during the events of _Spider-Man vs. Wolverine #1_ (1987). During a fight with Wolverine, a disoriented Peter accidentally kills Charlie.
  12. “Dozens of Spiders” refers to the alternate-reality versions of Peter Parker and Spider-man who died during the _Spiderverse_ storyline.
  13. The last, of course, refers to Gwen Stacey.



7) In _Superior Spider-Man_ #20, Peter—while possessed by Doctor Octopus—teams up with Sajani Jaffrey, a former member of Horizon Labs, to open a tech start-up called Parker Industries.

8)  In _Amazing Spider-Man #5-6_ (2015), Electro teams up with Black Cat to kill Spider-man. During this, Black Cat tricks Electro into getting into a machine he thinks will fix his out of control electricity powers, but she sabotages it at the last minute. Electro does end up depowered, but the explosion caused by Black Cat’s interference destroys the machine—which Parker Industries built.

9) Alchemax is the rival company to Parker Industries, and is owned by Liz Allen (Harry Osborn’s ex and father of his child) and Norman Osborn (who is currently in hiding.)

 


	4. The Streets of New York (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: A huge shout-out to everyone who has read, given kudos, and bookmarked this fic! This chapter will be a little shorter, but hopefully it'll lead to more timely updates with mid-terms and finals right around the corner. The next update will be November 27th.

* * *

 

What it’s _about_ , Anna Maria explains, is money. Or rather: a lack thereof. She explains how the cost of moving and setting up their new equipment already threatened to put Parker Industries back in the red, never mind the added cost of rushing development on the inhibitors. They weren’t in danger of bankruptcy—thank God—but without a concrete timetable of when the inhibitor chips would come out of Alpha, courting investors just wasn’t feasible. Moreover, while Peter had held off the inevitable by selling a handful of designs to Stark Resilient, it also meant _Parker Industries_ had less to use as leverage. Promises of future innovation came cheap, after all.

(Much like the starry-eyed amateurs who made them.)

Realizing it is only the start, however. Like great punchlines and in-laws: bad news always came in threes. And so, after sitting through the first round of tests, it comes as no surprise to Peter that:

“—they’re not bonding with the test subjects. Not completely, at any rate,” Sajani gnaws on the end of a pencil while she and Peter leaf through their preliminary reports. The trials, by and large, had been a failure. “Your design showed an increase in overall capacity, but it’s thrown everything else out of whack. We’re getting twice as much absorption, but the chip themselves have lost nearly forty percent—or more, shit—in terms of grafting capability.”

Peter scans over their numbers, the future they represent.

The Cubs have better odds at winning the pennant.

“Subject A reported nausea and a loss of balance within the first hour of use,” Sajani is a coroner seated mid-dissection next to Peter’s desk. “Half an hour later, they lost consciousness and would not wake until the inhibitor was removed. They’re still groggy, but it’s been close to three hours and they’ve presented no other side-effects.”

Despite the cool exterior, Sajani’s right leg, even while crossed over the left, refuses to stop bouncing.

“Thank God,” Peter breathes. He flips to the next page to follow along; they’d been forced to go Stone Age in the wake of Ghost, everything analogue and dead trees. “So, our friend Subject B—Anna, am I reading this right?”

She looks around the stack of papers piled high on coffee table to the left of Peter’s desk, wrinkles her nose in lieu of asking what he means.

“It says here the inhibitor… _exploded on contact with the test subject_?” Peter holds the report up to his face as though that would change what he’d read. It doesn’t. “And then _continued_ to explode? For five minutes?” Even up to the light, his finger pointed to the line in question: it refuses to change. “Despite having exploded once already—did I read that right?”

Anna Maria bites her lip. “Yeah, I thought it was a typo too until I saw it. They’re fine, by the way,” she adds, “But we have a few singed eyebrows and forearms among the interns.”

“Oy vey,” Peter throws the report to his desk and near-collapses back against his chair. “And Ele—I mean, what happened to Subject C?” He almost doesn’t want to know. With their luck, Dillon became a quantum tunnel into the Negative Zone. “Wait, don’t tell me,” he holds up both hands, “The guy’s head split open like a ripe watermelon and there was a black hole inside!”

Anna Maria lowers her clipboard, gives him a controlled, even look. “We don’t know, actually. Mister Dillon is still in intensive care,” the disappointment in her voice makes Peter wince on the inside. “The inhibitor fused at the bone instead of the epidermis. Whether it’s due to his unique biology, or an inherent design flaw: he’ll be in and out of surgery for the rest of the week. So, no—negative on the midnight Syfy schlock.”

Great. Peter runs a hand down his face. Sighs. “Do we have _any_ good news, today?" 

A dry laugh from Sajani. “At least our insurance will cover everything.”

Oh, this is the end of the world. Even the heartless demon on staff is making jokes.

“This is a disaster,” Peter grumbles to the ceiling. He starts to run both hands down his face until Sajani and the miniscule smile she’s wearing catch his eye, make his seethe. “…Your thoughts, Doctor?”

She plays innocent, but the smile dims at the edges. “Same as you, Parker. We’re fucked.”

“No, seriously; I know you want to rub it in,” thirty years old and Peter can still manage the petulance of a child. “There’s a harem of your very own exotic dancers somewhere on site, right? A fireworks display and a band ready to play  for this exact moment?”

“You think I _want_ to celebrate your ineptitude?”

“Why not?” Peter gestures airily, “Interstellar’s done more for science than I have, at this point1.”

“Oh, boo-hoo; we’re just stating facts, Parker.” Sajani flips a page, the embodiment of casual. “You’re acting like you’ve never botched a multi-million dollar experiment until today.”

The statement hangs awkwardly. It must show on his face, because Sajani stops reading and focuses on Peter as though he’d just let slip he was Spider-Man.

“NCL wants to confirm your meeting for this Sunday, Peter.” Anna Maria, thank God, swoops in to save the say. When Sajani turns her head, Peter mouths a silent _thank you_ for the assist.

“Tell them Sunday doesn’t work for me,” at the perplexed look Sajani shoots him, Peter shrugs and explains: “I made an executive decision, sorry. We’re bleeding money—what little we have, granted—but I’m not going to trust anyone showing up with an offer we shouldn’t refuse. I’ve already watched that episode of _Game of Thrones_ and it sucked for everyone not named Lannister.”

Sajani snorts at the idea. “You’re an idiot, Parker.”

“Yeah, so I’ve heard,” Peter raps knuckles on the side of his head, “They say I’ve got more screws loose than an Ikea catalogue.”

“And about as much sense—listen, Parker,” eyes the color of honey zero in on him, Sajani setting her clipboard down with a soft _clack_. “This experiment of yours? It’s going to cost us. We rushed development, and you know it.” He does, but fights the reflex to look away. “If you had devoted more time to improving our previous iteration, this entire afternoon would’ve been more of a success. This was sloppy.”

The pseudo-compliment takes him by surprise. Before he can ask her to explain, Sajani continues; “That said: the afternoon hasn’t been a total wash. We’ve already isolated at least _symptoms_ of the issue, so we’re not back to square one with this.”

 Ah. There’s good news. Peter nods along. “…Why do I feel there’s still another _but_ , though?”

“Because, despite all evidence, you’re smart enough to know what comes next,” she answers, leaning back in her chair. “Like it or not, innovation comes with risk. And to negate risk, we need capital. Or, is your plan what, exactly? Run to _Stark_ again?” she gestures the question, sarcasm plain in her voice, “And when that goodwill runs its course and _he_ wants a piece, what then?”

Memories of Tony’s _Extremis_ app 2 have Peter rub the scruff of his neck. “…At the end of the day, this company is more than profit-loss analysis, Doctor Jaffrey. It has to be. I won’t let something that can change the world be tied to politics and corporations.”

“And supporting that naïve ideal is bleeding us dry,” she retorts, even.

“Better that than us sponsor the next Sentinel Program,” he snaps back. “I won’t have it.”

“Then you’re going to lose our company.”

“If you have a problem with it, well—” Peter thumbs his nose, crosses his arms at the chest. “It’s my name on all the business cards, Doctor.” 

He regrets saying it the moment the words leave his mouth, because Sajani’s face suddenly fills with a quiet fury. The look starts with surprise, a sardonic _hm_ followed by pursed lips, raised eyebrows, and a gentle but continuous nod of the head. Licking her lips, she sets down her clipboard before standing up and then closing the distance between them.

“Parker, just who do you think you are?” she asks, a hand settled to one hip while the other finds the rim of the desk behind Peter. “There are interns here with more time on the clock than you. _New_ interns. And _now_ you want to throw your weight around? Please.”

“Well,” Peter hedges, bobbing his head.

“ _Rab daa vaastaa_. You're lucky I agree with you on this or I’d put your chauvinistic ass through a wall.” 

“Buhwhat?”

He forgets, sometimes, that Sajani is a real person. Beneath the vitriol, there lay a brilliant mind whom had once been a rockstar in the scientific community. That she had managed to keep Parker Industries afloat was proof enough she wouldn’t let anyone or anything, even a partner she thought incompetent, keep her from making her mark on the world.

“—Like I said earlier: I only tear out the hearts of _incompetent_ CEOs,” a perfectly manicured finger prods his chest before Sajani pulls back. “I may despise your project and the high horse it road in on, but handing control of it to someone else? Please. I’d sooner cut out the middleman and find work with A.I.M.”

She might have stayed out of respect for whom Peter had once been—the man Otto Octavius had made him out to be—or for whatever glory she now felt just within their reach. She might have worked so hard simply to prove she could, to demonstrate that a woman in her field didn’t _need_ to be nice to pursue their goals. Either way, her light smirk is all the answer Peter needs right now.

(Above all else, he knows Doctor Sajani Jaffrey _hated_ to lose.)

“Those lab-coats though,” he jokes with a toothy, easy grin. “Wouldn’t blame anyone for defecting, to be honest. Henchmen probably have great health packages.”

“We’d both look terrible in yellow,” she breathes a laugh, turns to grab her clipboard and walk toward the door of his office. “If you two can hold down the fort, I need caffeine and six hours of not being near this place.”

“Shall I warn the interns?” Anna offers from the corner, smiling.

“Parker can handle it,” sensing she’d been caught over her quota of niceties, Sajani adds: “That is, should he deign it necessary in lieu of an oh-so busy schedule. Perhaps it’d even allow him to learn their names. Or show them he does any work at all, for once.”

Peter blinks. “…Did we just have a moment?”

Her eyes narrow, but not her smile. “Don’t push it.”

“Thank you,” he answers back, with feeling. "That—minus the threat, that’s actually a confidence booster.” 

Sajani scoffs, rolling her eyes before she opens the door leading out of Peter’s office. Despite how things went, Peter knows this isn’t the last time they’ll have this discussion.

“Just keep in mind we’re in this together, Parker. Gallivanting around by the seat of your pants may have worked for _Spider-Man_ , but I’m not putting up with any spandex-related bullshit.”

Peter lets Sajani get out of earshot before he laughs.

***

Contrary to popular belief, the Spider-Man costume hasn’t been cloth and spandex in over ten years. His newest suit is actually more metal than fabric; its weave of Z-metal3 and Kevlar dampen vibration and shock, make it so even a gut-punch from the Hulk won’t take Peter out of the fight—for too long, anyhow. It’s the latest addition to an arsenal Peter has constantly improved over time, the culmination of years spent tackling foes like Venom and Carnage, Norman Osborn and Morlun: violent monsters who only grew stronger with age.

(Where Black Cat fell on that scale, Peter still didn’t know.)

But with Parker Industries, keeping ahead of the curve by the skin of his teeth is no longer an option. Anna Maria figures they have little over a month to solve the issue with the inhibitors. After that, the company either declares bankruptcy, or sells out. They _need_ a product. And if Peter wanted to continue running PI on his own terms, they needed that product yesterday.

He tells Anna Maria to give him two weeks.

She tells him to be more serious.

(They fight.)

Four hours later, Peter’s swinging over midday traffic trying to figure out how things _work_.

( _You are the center_ , Madam Webb told him once  _And it must hold, for your actions reverberate further than you shall ever realize._ )

Here’s how “genius” works, in his opinion—you’re born with an innate talent to retain information and work harder than most to disprove it.

Peters know he can’t think straight when locked in stuffy, anesthetized labs and offices. Years of being the smartest dumb guy at work teach him more about how he learns than any time ever spent in a classroom. He works best where a love for science first blossoms. The toolshed behind his house, late nights in his room, the library, on top of skyscrapers eating lo mein from a box, rubbing shoulders with Curt Connor’s in their tiny lab at ESU: where Peter first cut his teeth as Spider-Man is where the gadgets synonymous with the name came to life.

(Yeah, even the Spider-Mobile.)

He spends the first days brainstorming. For most, that involves a whiteboard and several packets of dry-erase marker. For Peter, it involves punching things—namely, criminals.

Case in point: he figures what might be the problem with their first test subject somewhere between decking White Rabbit and making sure Porcupine—or at least the new bozo wearing the suit—understands web fluid plus hundreds of prehensile spikes plus thrashing around on the sidewalk equals your own personal cocoon. It’s Tuesday and the _Menagerie_ 4, White Rabbit’s team of animal-themed goons, is at it again.

“Now, do I call Pest Control or New York’s Finest?” Peter asks, ducking to escape a blow from newcomer Panda-Mania. “It doesn’t seem fair to put so many exotic pets behind bars. Like, I’ll feel bad if they put you in a zoo, but it’ll be even worse if you get adopted by some air-headed pop star.”

They’re near the corner of 14th and Hudson in Manhattan, the blown out remains of a mom-and-pop pharmacy still smoldering behind Porcupine and White Rabbit. Apparently, the herbal tea they’d sold White Rabbit hadn’t meshed well with her prescription sleep-aide; the way she described it, drinking the stuff had put her in an almost twenty-four hours coma. On purpose.

Which, y’know. _Crazy_. But it did make Peter think.

He leaps over Panda-Mania to land square on Hippo’s wide, bulbous snout. “Yo, what’s it feel like knowing you’ll never get a Disney movie?”

Hippo roars—a sound somewhere between a distressed jackass and a donkey, to be honest—and violently shakes his face to try and dislodge Peter. Taking that and a shock of Spider Sense as his cue, the Wall-Crawler backflips off Hippo’s thick snout, his arc of movement taking him over the head of a charging Panda-Monium. He yells: “Dude, Hungry Hungry Hippos isn’t a contact sport!” just as the woman slams into Hippo’s massive girth, the man’s dense and rubbery hide all but bouncing her across the street.

“Ouch,” Peter sucks in a hiss, fakes a wince. “No wonder she’s an endangered species.”

“Enough jokes, Spider-Man!” Hippo bellows, slapping a fist against his chest. “Face me like the animal you so claim to be!”

He rubs his chin, thoughtful. “You, uh. Sure about that?”

Another gurgle of a roar heralds the grey-skinned brute charging at Peter shoulder-first. He rolls his eyes and discretely flicks tiny switches near the pressure-pads of both web-shooters, points to either side of the goon and lets fly. Hippo, true to form, is too focused on closing the gap between them to notice the hundreds of wafer-thin strands of web that begin to course the air, snagging on everything they touch.

“—Pro-tip for my beautifully blubbered buddy,” Peter starts, holding up a finger as Hippo begins to slow, each step a new labor of strength. “Spiders don’t exactly _fight_. Put me in a ring with Ronda Rousey, and she’d probably kick my red-and-blue behind.”

(Not exactly true, but white lies keep superstitious and cowardly criminals guessing.)

The hulking crook makes it, maybe, ten feet across the avenue. Max. Unlike Porcupine, however, Hippo knows enough about Spider-Man not to thrash about and make things worse. He’s covered from broad snout to foot; fine strands of web stretch from the lip of one sidewalk to the other, their small bit of 14th Street looking like every Frat and Sorority this side of the Hudson had had a silly string bloc party.

“I’ll— _nngh—_ get you for this Sp- _Spideeeeer_...ma—” Hippo struggles to form words, eventually has to stand there like an idiot with his mouth locked in place by the spread of Peter’s web.

That’s two down. He glances toward Panda-Monium to check—

“How is it you’ve showed up _three times_ now to foil my plans?” White Rabbit calls from behind Peter, voice trembling with rage. She points a gloved finger at him. “Three times in a row, Spider-Man! And with the utmost punctuality! Don’t you have a life, you jerk?!”

“Maybe I’m just madly in love with you, Bun-bun?” Peter shoots back, shrugs.

Rabbit’s face—despite the pounds of eggshell white make-up and pink blush—goes crimson all the way to the tip of her (human) ears. She takes a step back, holds both arms to her chest. “R-really?” she stammers, “You’ve got a thing for me, Spidey?”

“Dude, no.”

Anger contorts Rabbit’s face in an instant. She brandishes her umbrella with a snarl, pointing it end-first at Peter. “No one plays with my emotions like that, you arachnid ass!”

They never learn, do they?

He webs the entire front end of White Rabbit’s umbrella just as she pulls the trigger. Whatever mechanism allows her to fire the thing obviously jams and, not for the first time in his career, Peter sees a gag ripped straight out of Loony Toons come to life. The entire umbrella balloons outward, visibly quaking in Rabbit’s grip. Though he knows nothing life threatening is about to happen—thank you, Spider Sense—Peter still pretends to be just as confused as Rabbit, tilts his head as she goes frantic trying to delay the inevitable.

“What did you do, whatdidyoudo?!” she hollers, shaking the umbrella as its insides let out a high-pitched mechanical whine. “I can’t even use it as a normal umbrella, now! This isn’t right! You owe three-fifty!”

Peter crosses his arms, faux-concerned. “Having technical problems, Bun?”

“This isn’t ff-f-funny, y-y-ou c-c-c-clod!” but Rabbit’s teeth chattering, her entire body vibrating in place because she’s still holding on for dear life? That’s kinda hilarious.

“The ACME Corporation is not liable for malfunctions brought on through the improper use of ACME Corporation products,” Peter channels his best Ben Stein impression, dry and monotone. “If you have a complaint, please address it to the specific department your product was ordered from.”

“I ss-swear: if y-y-you sit b-b-ack and this explodes on m-m-me…I am going to _haunt your ass_!”

Peter almost, _almost_ laughs when Rabbit glares at him, then looks back to her umbrella as it reaches critical mass, her baby blue eyes the size of dinner plates.

(All that’s missing when the thing goes off is her stopping to hold up a tiny white flag.)

It’s no earth-shattering kaboom, but the force of the explosion knocks White Rabbit off her feet and hurtling back into the pharmacy itself. When she lands, it’s with a loud _whump_ and a dust-up of magazines sent flying everywhere.

(That, for whatever reason, warrants a chuckle. It’s _probably_ stress-related.)

He scans the street, tries not to keep laughing as everything around him goes quiet and still. The few minutes after a punch-up are always like this, a low sort of tension. Peter was never really any _good_ at baseball, played more for Uncle Ben’s sake than his own if he’s being honest; but it’s not the sort of thing you forget. The Manihani Muskrats versus the Brooklyn Bears—his first loss, age six, all because the second baseman choked something fierce. He imagines that’s how the Menagerie must feel right now.

The trick to understanding repeat offenders, Peter thinks, is never to dehumanize them. Most were just normal people in rough situations. Or desperate; a wrong turn fifteen years ago, and maybe Peter would be the one knocked out on the street right now. Reminding himself that, he hopes, is enough to keep him honest. White Rabbit and her crew need help, not justice.

Still, he can’t afford to take chances. He has to play smarter. Nastier. A tap of his earpiece alerts the nearest precinct, a second pinged any Avengers nearby for clean-up duty. The Menagerie hadn’t showcased any new tricks, but organized crime in New York was _not_. No one knew who worked for whom anymore. Old alliances didn’t matter. The dissolution of Norman Osborn’s “Goblin Nation 5,” alongside Hammerhead’s weakening grip on the Maggia6 meant vultures like Tombstone and the Owl could swallow up the disenfranchised unopposed.

And at the center of it all, quietly bidding her time was Felicia Hardy.

Peter still can’t figure out which is worse.

After checking to see Hippo and Panda are still out, Peter calmly walks up to the “mouth” of the ruined storefront—makes sure to add more web to the cocoon holding Porcupine erstwhile—and peeks inside. Rabbit is sprawled in a heap, body rag-dolled through a display-case of magazines. He chuckles to himself; crooks like Rabbit aren’t predators. They’re not on the streets looking to rampage and conquer. If Peter had more time, if he could get to know her, maybe somehow find help, get her _out_ of this cycle, maybe things would be different.

 _Could_ be different.

It’s the last coherent thought Peter has before Grizzly takes a swing at him.

* * *

* * *

   
**Footnotes;**

1) This isn’t a comic book reference, so much as an obscure joke. Google “Black Holes and Interstellar (the film),” to get what Peter means. **  
**

2) Tony sold said digital application during the events of  _Superior Iron Man_  #2. After releasing it for free--and essentially giving hundreds, if not thousands of people perfect bodies and health--he began charging a ludicrous amount to keep the app "activated". (Don't worry, they got better.)

3)  **Z-metal** : a strong but apparently _extremely_ malleable material that shows up in “The Amazing Spider-Man #001 (2015) as one of Peter’s new trick webs.

4)  **The Menagerie** : debut in Amazing Spider-Man Vol3 #001 (2014), they’re a group of animal-themed villains led by White Rabbit, their roster including: Hippo, Panda-Mania, Skein (formerly known as Gypsy Moth), and (most likely) the new Kangaroo and Grizzly (Bruin). For the sake of the story, White Rabbit has expanded the team to include other D-list villains.

5) The _Goblin Nation_ was Norman Osborn’s latest attempt at rebuilding his powerbase. He recruited hundreds of petty criminals and people generally disillusioned with their lot in life, fashioning them into an underground network of spies. After months of gathering intel and committing crimes under everyone else’s nose, Norman would use this small criminal empire in an attempt to destroy the Superior Spider-Man. This prompts Dr. Octopus to give up control of Peter’s body, whereupon the original Spider-Man defeats the Green Goblin once again. ( _Superior Spider-Man issue #26_ until _Superior Spider-Man Team-Up issue #12)  
_

6) _The Maggia_ is a crime family/syndicate of mob families that run much of New York’s “normal” criminal underground. Hammerhead took control of most Maggia families after dethroning Mister Sinister, but recent events (The _Spiral_ Storyline from _Amazing Spider-Man, issues 17.1-20.1_ ) have put Hammerhead behind bars. This, coupled with years of setbacks and losses, has set an already waning criminal empire on its heels.


End file.
